Becoming One

Making Love

0130.2010

Tonight, I will die.

The death will be delicate—reasoned.

It will happen in seconds

that slip outside of time.

You will thrust your sword—

the vein of your fate, gleaming—

into my womb,

where your temperate pollen

spills white.

The twisted roots of our bodies

will tumble together—

ribs, lungs—

wet leaves pressed

in the garden of our bones.

Yes, I will die.

And you will murder me.

I will let you—

and again,

and again.

This is the only death

where I say,

“Yes,”

and

“Please.”

Where I look at you,

grateful,

and return the act.

m.c.f.

༻❀༺

꧁❦꧂

AI-generated conceptual visual ⁘ Edited in Photoshop ⁘ Inspired by my ongoing exploration of symbolic duality in traditional oil and mythic narrative ⁘ Created to accompany the poem ⁘ Not for sale